


Lucifer Falling

by manic_intent



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alpha!Javert, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Javert thinks that God hates him, Knotting, M/M, Madeleine Era, Mpreg, Omega!Valjean, Sigh what is this terrible filthy thing that I wrote, That AU about Valjean's applied use of lawyers in Court, and his life would be easier if Valjean was typically submissive, no really his life would probably be less dramatic if he had used legal representation, non-standard a/b/o dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is difficult to breathe. The warm, omega scent that permeates the mayor's office, comforting only moments before, is now damning, and Javert feels frozen, stiff with both dumb shock and outrage. The alpha side of him uncurls, angry and rattled at being upended out of control, and he takes in a sharp breath between gritted teeth, a low hiss that makes Valjean narrow his eyes and draw himself up to his full height.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucifer Falling

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Падая, словно Люцифер](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772657) by [MadMoro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadMoro/pseuds/MadMoro), [Regis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regis/pseuds/Regis)



> After spending quite a bit of time reading Valvert for the Hugh Jackman x Russell Crowe and getting obsessed with Madeleine era, I finally had the time to watch Les Mis yesterday, and to my surprise, most of the valvert gets over and done with in about 40 minutes. :O The cart incident is immediately after the office introduction? It probably gets stretched in the book (I've read Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame, and that is streettttchhheeed to the max and I hear Les Mis is longer), I suppose, but I think I'll follow movie 'verse here. 
> 
> Some background about me for new readers: I used to practice law, which has unfortunately permanently damaged the way I look at the world, and will probably tell you all you need to know about this fic and the way I usually write A/B/O stuff. This fic was originally inspired by my first thought while watching Javert address 24601 in the bagne, which was... "5 years for a loaf of bread? You call it injustice, I call it You Probably Tried to Represent Yourself in Court." And then I went to do a bit of research on post French Revolution law and now I regret everything, I did not need all these details. 
> 
> I prefer not to write dubcon (although I love Madeleine era and its angsty identity issues lols) so I will be trying to work my way around an A/B/O, Madeleine era fic that contains no dubcon. Enjoy...? ergh, this ficbunny, so horrible. Sorry guys. What is this lol, I don't even normally read mpreg

I.

Javert isn't surprised to find himself grabbed by the elbow and hustled back into the mayor's office. Behind them, the clamour of the crowd around the rescued citizen and his cart fades as 'Madeleine' drags the door shut behind them both; Javert turns, his hand clutched tight around the hilt of his rapier, but the may- _Valjean_ is already striding to his desk, fingers clutched at the edge as if to steady himself.

It is difficult to breathe. The warm, omega scent that permeates the mayor's office, comforting only moments before, is now damning, and Javert feels frozen, stiff with both dumb shock and outrage. The alpha side of him uncurls, angry and rattled at being upended out of control, and he takes in a sharp breath between gritted teeth, a low hiss that makes Valjean narrow his eyes and draw himself up to his full height. 

"Javert," Valjean notes, uncertain, but even then, Javert feels it: the pull of an omega's untethered soul, that heady touch of reassurance-warmth-solace that makes omegas so particularly successful at religion and politics and fraud. The thought braces him, gets him to set his jaw, and his hand curls so tightly around the hilt of his rapier that his knuckles hurt. 

He is an alpha, and a trained one, an _inspector_. He's old enough in years and in the ways of the world not to be affected by an omega's empathy. "You are Jean Valjean," Javert settles for saying, accusingly: he puts his discipline and an alpha's natural authority into his voice, daring Valjean to refute it.

Annoyingly enough, Valjean smiles gently instead of buckling. "Would an omega be sentenced to Toulon?"

"If you were innocent, why would you mention Toulon?" Javert shoots back sharply, more confident now that his suspicions are correct. 

"I know that I am not innocent of your charge, so I mention Toulon," Valjean replies, and his calm voice is infuriating, at clear odds with the twitchy jump of his fingers against his desk and the agitation in his eyes: the conflict unsettles Javert at a base level that he cannot control, and he hates it so much that he has to clench his teeth. He's met omegas before, of course: they're an uncommon aspect, but hardly rare, and like alphas and betas alike they too are subject to the law.

"You must have hidden your aspect before," Javert mutters, "Lied to the Court. Omegas are sentenced to Rochefort." It isn't difficult to hide aspects, particularly for the desperately poor: starvation, sickness and birth defects all serve to stifle aspects to null, and in the stink and squalor of Toulon, it's not surprising that Valjean had gone undetected, his body's cycles grown dormant, every inch of energy reserved for survival. 

"And do you know," Valjean continues quietly, "What happens to omegas in Rochefort?"

He does, God help him, he does. "It is what the law dictates," Javert mutters, unwilling to cede the moral higher ground regardless.

"And the law is always right?"

This is a better question - Javert scowls. "A convict would know nothing of the law."

"An _ex_ -convict," Valjean corrects, "I served nineteen years in Toulon. Rochefort omegas serve a maximum of four years, no matter their offence. You could say that I am fifteen years in credit."

Javert sneers. "You committed perjury before a Court and-"

"Even if I killed a man instead of theft and perjury," Valjean interrupts, "Four years."

" _And_ you broke parole," Javert continues, triumphant. "A further and separate offence." 

Valjean pales, and his obvious fear is almost shattering: Javert has to breathe through his mouth, count slowly to ten in his head - despite all of his training his own aspect roils, instinctively protective, and it disgusts him. He's risen so far in the ranks of the police despite his aspect, and he _will_ not disgrace his uniform. "Men change," Valjean says pleadingly, and Javert has to fight not to step back - or forward - it's all he can do to root himself in place. 

"Do thieves?"

"Why would I save that man if I were still the convict from Toulon?"

"Perhaps you did not know that I would pick up the slip," Javert notes awkwardly, and quietly berates himself for the uncertainty in his tone. "Does it matter?"

"If once a thief, always a thief, then why not execute thieves and murderers alike?"

"Prison corrects a debt owed to society. It does not correct a character flaw."

"God forgives. It is written in the Holy Book-"

"Twist all you like, you are still guilty." 

"Without me, the town will go back to what it was before. Would you have that on your conscience?"

"You place too much importance on your shoulders," Javert retorts, though he wavers: he's heard many glowing reports of Montreuil-sur-Mer and its supposedly saintly Monsieur le Maire - it was why he had been of mixed feelings with regards to his posting. It isn't Paris, with its opportunities, but he had felt that the quiet calm of a good town, filled with good people and helmed by a good mayor, would have prepared him well for an eventual career transition. 

"Take up your post," Valjean suggests persuasively, and Javert shouldn't meet his eyes, but training dictates that he must, and this is why omegas can be so dangerous, Javert thinks dumbly: under the weight of the siren call of the strongest amongst them, unbroken, what can an alpha do but come to heel? The unthinking, elemental beast shackled to his soul that he's kept pinned under his duties and his respect for his profession is shaking itself. He wants to put his teeth at Valjean's throat. He wants to go down on his knees. He wants-

He's growing hard, shamefully so, and he squirms. At least he has his hat, still held clutched over his belly: it serves, but barely, and he tries to drag some semblance of control back over himself.

"Ask the town about me. Anyone you like," Valjean continues, oblivious, "I've changed, Inspector. Please."

Javert barely manages to stifle a strangled sound. He should laugh in Valjean's face, shackle him and march him over to the cells, escort him to the nearest Court. What he does, instead, is swallow one breath, then another, pinned between duty and instinct. He doesn't know what to think. Despite his words, according to the law, even if Javert adds Valjean's parole breaking to the tally, Valjean is - annoyingly enough - indeed 'in credit', ludicrous as that concept is. 

As to Rochefort - well. As an alpha, Javert would never have been offered a place as a guard in the Rochefort bagne: perhaps the only time in his life Javert had ever been thankful for his aspect. He knows the stories. Alphas and betas serve out their debts. Omegas, the rarest aspects, are... 'retrained'. It is the law, but this is the part of it that has ever settled uneasily in his soul: he has always attributed it to his aspect, and he's never before in fact arrested an omega for a crime serious enough to attribute anything more than a fine. In his line of work, omegas are usually victims.

"How have you changed?"

His question's meant to be sarcastic, but Valjean smiles earnestly, and he tries to look away, but he can't. "I have found God."

Javert sneers. Valjean, however, merely continues to smile, and eventually, it's Javert who has to force himself to look away. "An easy enough excuse."

"I would not call God an excuse," Valjean notes wryly, but there's steel in his voice now, and it makes Javert's gaze jerk back up. "I am now a rich man, Inspector, and I have power. If I can use it to save myself from Rochefort, I will. You have no proof but sheer conjecture. I have some influence beyond Montreuil-sur-Mer, and I have the means with which to employ the best to defend myself in Court."

"Ah," Javert drawls, "Now the dog shows its teeth."

"It was merely an observation." Valjean replies tiredly. "And a prediction. If you value your career, Inspector, desist."

"I value justice," Javert retorts, "Not my career."

II.

They face each other in the dock, but in the end, frustratingly enough, even with a beta judge, the case falls apart in Court. The attorneys whom Valjean employ are a pack of weasels, and to Javert's frustration Valjean is cleared of all charges: it would be easier if Valjean could be forced into the stand to be cross-examined, but his lawyers exercise some sort of right against self-incrimination, the concept of which mystifies Javert but is apparently legally acceptable. Valjean has made a travesty of the system, and Javert glares murder at him the whole while as he shakes hands with his attorneys and has a quiet word with the Commissaire, then he has the balls to smile gently at Javert as he ambles out of the courthouse and towards freedom.

The Commissaire approaches Javert, and Javert holds his chin high: if he's to be punished for this, he has accepted his fate. To his surprise, however, the Commissaire merely nods at him. "Return to your post in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Inspector. I trust that you will be more cautious with your accusations in the future." 

He blinks, startled. "Commissaire-"

"Ordinarily," the Commissaire growls at him despite being a beta, and bristles when Javert flinches, "I would discharge you from the force, but Monsieur Madeleine made a personal request that you were not to be punished for 'executing' your duties as you saw 'fit'. Since he will still tolerate you as an inspector, you will return to your post. Understand?"

"Sir," Javert inclines his head, stiffly. So this is revenge, then. Valjean will have him dance to a convict mayor's tune to the end of his days. From the look of cool disgust that the Commissaire shoots him on his way out of the courthouse, Javert knows that all his chances at career advancement in Paris are finished.

Perhaps he can still make something of it. If he is still the Inspector, he is by necessity close to the mayor: if Valjean slips up again, Javert will be there. The thought soothes his wounded pride and his anger all of the long ride home, and when he makes his report to Valjean the next morning, as he would to a true mayor, he is stiffly polite. 

"I warned you," Valjean tells him, and he looks rueful. Javert has to squash the impulse to punch out his teeth.

"I'll be watching you closely," Javert retorts coldly. "You may have tricked the judge, but you do not fool me." He tries not to breathe in too deeply: Valjean relaxed and smiling tentatively, like this, is just as dangerous. Perhaps this is why the beta judge ruled in Valjean's favour. Perhaps places like the Rochefort bagne are necessary after all.

The thought sours, and Javert spends the whole week in a foul mood. Children clear out of his path on the street, and even his own officers are quick to scurry away to their desks whenever he returns to the stationhouse to attend to his paperwork. Annoyingly enough, he isn't free of Valjean even at night - he catches him skulking around the docks every so often, dispensing alms to the poor, and once, while force-marching him back to the maire's house, Javert snaps, "Why do you bother?"

"With what?" Valjean has adopted an exasperatingly gentle tone whenever talking to Javert: it's as though he instinctively knows how to best test his patience.

"Pretences towards charity. You have nothing to prove to me."

"Perhaps I have everything to prove to you," Valjean replies, in his infuriatingly circular way, and Javert's glad for the stiff night breeze: he can't scent Valjean, and his mind is clear. "I've been giving alms to the poor in Montreuil-sur-Mer ever since I had the means to do so. It has nothing to do with you."

"You're keeping up your cover."

"The Bible instructs us to do good, to share what we have, to be generous to the poor."

"'Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them,'" Javert quotes Matthew as a retort, and to his irritation, Valjean laughs. 

"And so, I give alms at night," Valjean points out. "In secret." 

"Like a thief."

"A thief who gives away francs is a poor one." 

"Everyone in town knows who this 'secret' benefactor of the poor is. How many tall, male omegas are there in Montreuil-sur-Mer?" Javert shoots back, and then he regrets saying that: he's come full circle in this idiotic argument, and Valjean is smiling gently at him.

"Not many people are as observant as you are, Inspector."

Javert scowls. "Again you mock me." 

"Well," Valjean replies mildly, "Again you are walking me home." 

Javert doesn't see the connection. "You are an omega."

"And?"

 _And omegas should not be wandering about in the dark at the worst recesses of a town_ , Javert nearly says, but he holds his tongue, somehow, barely. A man who can lift a cart off the ground has little need of a personal guard, omega or not, and Valjean is not a weak omega, shy and retiring and submissive. Javert's life would have been infinitely easier if he had been.

"Things are out of order," Javert mutters, finally, when Valjean flicks him an inquiringly polite glance. Valjean should have been frightened of him: he should have run, a rabbit before the hounds of the law. He had turned around instead and shown his teeth. Javert should be trying to enforce his alpha's will and authority on Valjean. Instead, he's walking at heel. He feels disoriented all over again, and it frustrates him.

"Had Toulon been all I had to fear," Valjean murmurs then, "I would not have spent as much capital and effort as I did."

Yes. There it is. Backed into a corner, even a rabbit has claws. Javert expects to feel outrage at Valjean's cavalier admission, but instead, he only feels tired. They're at Valjean's gate, and Valjean hesitates, his fingers on the latch, then he turns to Javert. "Would you like to come in? For tea?"

Javert stares at him, and Valjean looks just as surprised as Javert feels. They stand awkwardly in the evening chill for a while, then Javert mutters, " _Bonne nuit_ , Monsieur." 

"Ah," Valjean looks hunted for a moment, and the beast in Javert stretches, revelling in the moment before he wrings it back into place. "Of course."

III.

Valjean sets up a soup kitchen as the days grow colder, much to Javert's irritation. Just as food left untended attracts vermin, warm soup, freely given, and a warm hearth have drawn human scum from far and wide into Montreuil-sur-Mer, and his men pull double shifts patrolling the streets. Thankfully, it's too cold even for the most determined of thieves, though not cold enough for the most annoying of mayors.

"It is enough that you are feeding them," Javert growls, as he steers Valjean away from his newly crafted den of human leeches, "But do you have to pay them as well?"

"I recognise," Valjean notes with a grin, "That they are not very neat." It's a non sequitur, and Javert blinks, until Valjean adds, "They do not make for a very orderly town."

"Precisely," Javert snaps, and realizes that he's been baited when Valjean's grin widens - he scowls. The night is still, and Valjean's scent is distracting: Javert has a headache and he isn't sure if the chill and the drudgery of the melting snow under his cheap boots is what sharpens his senses, or if- but- no. Valjean is going on in years, and although Javert isn't sure exactly when an omega is old enough to be null, surely if Valjean was beginning to step into his Time he would have stayed at home, rather than wander the streets dispensing alms to scum.

Or not.

In fact, it's a wonder, Javert thinks, that Valjean hasn't yet run into any of the worst sort of trouble for an omega, and the very thought makes him instinctively angry. Valjean could have been - well, he could have been the cause of a great deal of public and disorderly conduct, at the very least, and-

"They are human too," Valjean has misinterpreted his temper. "What hope have they in the gutter but for the grace of God?"

"They could find work." 

"There is no work to be had in this town." 

"Then they can go to another town." Javert retorts, his teeth gritted. Valjean opens his mouth, and Javert cuts in, "I was _born_ in the gutter, Valjean, in a bagne. I _work_."

Valjean has pity in his eyes and Javert cannot stand it - he jerks his gaze away, down to the filthy snow, and if Valjean says that he is sorry, Javert will hit him, mayor or not, and- "Then it is a remarkable thing that you have done, to come so far."

"Hardly remarkable," Javert tries not to be flattered, but the beast within him preens, to his disgust. It's small comfort that he's not the only one - the entire town is charmed by their mayor, even the betas. 

This is what a self-controlled omega is capable of. Church and governance and fraud. Javert clenches his hands, and keeps studiously quiet all the way back to Valjean's gate. He pointedly ignores Valjean's now habitual invitation to come in for tea, and finally, Valjean adds, wryly, "See you tomorrow morning, Inspector."

The statement surprises him enough that Javert bluntly disagrees, "You? You are staying _home_."

Valjean blinks at him with some surprise, and Javert glares at him, mulishly - after a long moment, Valjean's hand drops from the gate. "And why, pray tell?"

Faced with a direct question, Javert flounders. "I, well, can you not, your _scent_ ," he lowers his voice, with a quick glance down the street. "You are nearing your Time," he adds helplessly, when Valjean continues to stare. 

"Oh." Valjean blinks, then - infuriatingly enough - he merely smiles. "I am sure that you are mistaken, Inspector, for I am too old for that to trouble me further." 

_Trust me_ , Javert almost states, but thankfully, he catches himself. "Believe me, Monsieur, I know differently," he retorts stiffly. 

"You are mistaken," Valjean repeats firmly, and steel bucks into his tone: Javert tries not to swallow visibly even as his prick swells a little in the confines of his trousers, thankfully hidden by the heavy wool of his coat. He prays that Valjean doesn't notice, but God seems to ignore the fervent thoughts of a humble and long-suffering police inspector this night - Valjean's eyes widen slightly, then he adds, his tone remaining firm, "Come in for tea, Inspector."

He shouldn't, but he does, and he hates himself a little as he steps over the threshold. Javert doesn't allow Valjean to take his coat, hanging it up along with his hat by himself and leaving his rapier balanced against the wall. Wherever Valjean's housekeeper is, at least his hearth is warm and the house is neat, if painfully unfurnished. The furniture is sturdy but plain, and it is Valjean who has to set the kettle to boil and locate biscuits for refreshments, despite Javert's murmured protests that he isn't hungry. He doesn't quite remember what he had for dinner - probably bread and some cold meats - but Valjean's smile and Valjean's scent is damningly distracting, and he regrets having removed his coat as he settles deep into a chair by the hearth. That sweet omega scent is _everywhere_ , sometimes interlaced by the few faint neutral notes - the housekeeper is a beta, Javert surmises. 

Valjean has to repeat his question a few times before Javert belatedly realizes that he is being addressed. "About the matter of Bich-"

Javert sighs. Bich is a pickpocket and an unfortunate one, for there is really no point trying to pick Valjean's pocket - it would have been easier simply to approach Valjean head on and ask him for francs. Thankfully, a few upstanding citizens about the town had noticed Bich's idiocy firsthand and had called the watch when they detained him despite the mayor's gentle protests. "Thievery is considered treason. He will go to the bagne."

Valjean's fingers slip unconsciously under his right sleeve when he's growing agitated, probably to trace the old scars from manacles. A travesty indeed of the law, Javert thinks, taking refuge in his temper: could not the beta judge have made _something_ of Valjean's limp, clearly reminiscent of his time in a chain gang? Could he not have ordered Valjean to strip, to reveal the scars that he would have worn over his back from the touch of tarred whips? 

"The francs were a gift," Valjean says stubbornly.

"Witnesses think otherwise."

"The 'victim' says so," Valjean smiles, and Javert looks away quickly, towards the fire. "It is nearly Christmas, Javert, surely-"

"Surely the law should take a holiday?" Javert retorts, sarcastic. "You would allow for a season of thievery and murder and rape, perhaps? In the name of forgiveness and goodwill?" 

"No, no of course not-"

"The law must apply to all men. Crime must be punished. Consider this," Javert adds, when Valjean leans forward a little, as if to argue. "What if he had not chosen to pick your purse, Valjean, but another's? One of your factory workers, perhaps, Madame Dubois' purse, perhaps? Her son David is ill: she works to supply him with medicine while her husband supplies the family with food and rent money. Bich picks her purse. She cannot buy the medicine, and she is paid only once a month, what will happen to her son?" 

Valjean does not respond, wide-eyed, and Javert presses his advantage. "How many people about Montreuil-sur-Mer can afford to suffer from pickpocketing, Valjean? It is a good town, but life is still difficult for most. When a man steals a purse, the law does not punish the man purely for the act of thievery but also for its consequences. If you would counsel all men to turn the other cheek, the world will burn."

Valjean laughs, to Javert's annoyance. "I doubt that it will come to that."

"Leave charity to the church and leave the law to the police." Javert finishes his cup of tea pointedly, and is glad that Valjean's exasperating stubbornness has at least served to quiet his blood. "Are there any other complaints about my duties that you would like to raise, Monsieur? The hour is late."

"Have a biscuit," Valjean invites. Although his tone is friendly, and Javert has always thought himself the possessor of a fair amount of self-control, he cannot immediately come up with a reason to refuse, and reluctantly, he selects a small biscuit from the bowl. It's sweet, but not as sweet as Valjean's annoying scent, and Javert doesn't like the way Valjean smiles when he eats quickly and swallows. "It has been half a year," Valjean adds. 

"And?"

"I hope that time has tempered your opinion of me."

Time has proved that Valjean is even more cunning and exasperating than Javert had originally surmised, Javert wants to say, but instead, he presses his lips together and says nothing: eventually, Valjean sighs, and rises from his seat. Wordlessly relieved, Javert follows, anticipating the chill of the night air with impatience. He can't think with Valjean so close, in Valjean's _home_ , and he flinches when Valjean reaches over his shoulder to unhook his coat, holding it up for him. 

He manages to shrug into his coat without touching Valjean, but then fingers touch his shoulder and it's - it is almost like an out of body experience: Javert freezes, and allows himself to be turned around like a doll, wide-eyed as Valjean fixes the collar of his coat. He tries to breathe through his mouth, and it comes out stuttered: Valjean's smile is tentative. "Tomorrow?"

"What?" Javert jerks, but Valjean's hands remain curled in his collar. 

"I should remain at home?"

"I, uh, yes, or, a public disturbance," Javert stammers, and he grits his teeth. It's hard to think. It has been hard to think rationally about Valjean for a while, and Javert doesn't understand why. He has never been so affected by an omega before. For the most part, he has been able to bend the other aspects to his will, a trait that has served him well from his transition out from bagne guard into the police force. Valjean throws him utterly. Surely the Court should have seen this. Surely the judge should have known what a danger Valjean is to-

"Well then, if that is your opinion, Inspector, then I will heed it," Valjean's voice is warm and comforting and Javert wants to lean over, to press his mouth against the side of Valjean's neck, over his collar and cravat and breathe deeply. Instead, he clenches his fingernails deep into his palms. 

"Good," he decides, awkwardly. "I will inform your, your foreman that you are indisposed."

"I value my privacy-"

"Man has had aspects since God created Adam and Eve and Lilith," Javert mutters, "It will hardly come to your foreman as a shock. Your scent is all over the factory."

"-but," Valjean continues, as though he hasn't heard, "If you have the time to come by after your rounds for the day, Inspector, I would very much appreciate it." 

It isn't a request, and the base part of Javert stirs with interest: he grits his teeth. "That will not be appropriate, Valjean."

"Why not?"

"You are a..." Javert trails off, uncertain. Status wise, technically, Valjean is a mayor: Javert is only a police inspector, but also technically, Valjean is a convict, Javert is the police. Everything is out of order and nothing makes sense - he does not know where he stands and it is painfully disconcerting. Valjean is an omega near his Time, and the alpha in Javert is hungry for it: he was made thus by divine design. Adam is incomplete because Eve was made thus from his bones - only Lilith stands apart on her own feet, and here again, as before, at the beginning, an alpha is forever tempted into original sin.

It takes every inch of his self-control to gasp, " _Bonne nuit_ , Monsieur," and jerk back a step; his rapier goes clattering on the ground and the sound seems to break the spell that he's caught in - he stumbles as he leans down to grab at its scabbard, and he's out of the door into the chill of the night with his coat unbuttoned and his heart racing. God have mercy on his soul. 

The cold of the night has little effect on him - his blood still feels like it's on fire by the time he stumbles home to the cold confines of his flat, fumbling out of his coat and pressing the flat of his palm hard against aching flesh. Javert gasps out a breath as he leans heavily against his door, and this isn't the relief that he seeks, he can't- Valjean is- not his superior, not in truth, nor technically an inferior and-

He gets to the bed, where the rosary that Valjean had given him on the first day of their meeting in Montreuil-sur-Mer sits on the side table. Javert had always meant to return it, possibly by throwing it in Valjean's face, but he's never gotten around to it, and today he twists it around his fingers and holds it tightly enough to bite as he shucks his boots and gets into his nightclothes. He cannot want. Valjean is a temptation beyond which lies only damnation.

IV.

His hat is still at Valjean's house, which means that his uniform is incomplete, and this is the only reason, Javert tells himself, that he has to come by Valjean's house in the morning. He will take possession of his hat and then go back on his rounds for the day and that will be the end of all this nonsense. So fortified, Javert lets himself past Valjean's gate and knocks on the door.

There's no answer, and Javert waits for a long and awkward moment until he remembers that of _course_ Valjean isn't going to answer the door. Omegas are all affected by their Time differently, but if Valjean is even remotely rational, he's probably curled somewhere comfortable to wait it out, and, Javert truly should stop thinking about Valjean, beds, and Times. He takes in a slow breath and turns to go, which, given Valjean's awful lack of timing, is of course the moment that the door opens.

Valjean is fully dressed, hat, coat and cravat and all, and Javert stares at him dumbly. Valjean blinks at him, as though startled to see him. "Oh," he says, finally. "I thought that you were the housekeeper."

"Where are you going?"

"Just to the factory, very briefly," Valjean looks shamefaced, as though he is a child, caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. "I just remembered that I had a matter of business to deal with in the morning."

Valjean's remarkable stupidity steals all manner of speech from Javert, and he continues to stare, up until Valjean adds, "Did you need something?"

"I, uh, left my hat," Javert mumbles, startled into coherence, and Valjean nods, stepping back into his house. Javert takes in a strangled breath, and he's nearly composed again by the time Valjean returns with his hat in his hands. "Stay at home. I can carry a message to the factory."

"Public disturbance," Valjean notes, and grins, amused at some undoubtedly puerile note of humour that only a lying convict fake mayor omega can see, and Javert glares. 

"Quite so."

"There are few alphas in town and only one in the factory."

Javert has never liked the foreman. He glowers. "'Only one', you say." He should set an officer to watch the foreman. The whole town knows that Valjean is an omega. Perhaps the foreman has also sensed the onset of Valjean's Time. 

Infuriatingly enough, Valjean only laughs. "I am fully capable of dealing with him, Inspector, and I assure you that I will not try to start a riot, or whatever it is that concerns you." 

" _Stay at home_ ," Javert snaps, with all of his alpha authority, and Valjean actually startles a little, a sign that he is, at the very least, clear into the onset, and then, disconcertingly, he merely smiles, taking a step forward as if to push past Javert to the gate, and the alpha within Javert twists out of his grasp with a snarl. He doesn't know where he finds the strength to drag Valjean back into his house and slam the door shut behind them: Valjean is murmuring a protest that stutters to a halt when Javert presses against him with a choked sound, breathing deep, his mouth against Valjean's neck, his lips pressed against the neat white slip of cloth above his cravat. His hat and his rapier have fallen at their feet, and Javert lets out a whine as big, warm hands press briefly and awkwardly over his shoulders before slipping up to unbutton his coat. 

The coat suffers the same fate as his hat and rapier, and Valjean gets his damnable mouth on Javert as they stumble out of the corridor to the drawing room where they had taken tea: their lips press nervous and hungry as Javert somehow manages to fumble Valjean out of his coat and knock off his hat and there's a brief near-accident with the coffee table before they get to one of the armchairs. Javert grabs at Valjean's cravat but only manages to hold on as Valjean licks experimentally against his mouth, then inside, as he gasps, and it's awkward and their noses are bumping and he doesn't know what to do with his teeth. He's pinned to the armchair with Valjean curled over him, big hands pressing his shoulders tightly to the stuffed fabric with just the hint of Valjean's inhuman strength, and Javert's prick is already pressing painfully against the tight confines of his trousers. He probably makes an embarrassing sound as he squirms: Valjean looks down, grins, and drops a hand over his groin, squeezing experimentally - he uses a touch too much strength and it aches but Javert very nearly humiliates himself right there and then. 

"Your clothes," he gasps, because if he is going to be damned then at the very least he will do it without the fakery of 'Madeleine' pressed against him, and Valjean nods jerkily as they get off his waistcoat and cravat and belt, but the moment Valjean kicks off his shoes Javert can wait no longer. He drags Valjean's trousers down, and the fabric catches awkwardly and briefly over Valjean's ankles, then Valjean has the gall to laugh as he steps out of them and Javert drags him down to switch their places, shoving Valjean against the armchair and dragging up his knees over the arm rests. Valjean blushes, and it's a good look on him, dishevelled and half naked and at Javert's mercy, God, his powerful thighs spread and Javert has to press his hand tightly down between his own legs, taking in a shaky breath. The sweet omega scent is headier - Valjean is wet and he lets out a moan as Javert leans in briefly for a taste with a tentative flick of his tongue. 

It is sweet, and thick, and Javert licks harder, pressing the flat of his tongue hard against the pucker of muscle: hands scrabble briefly at his hair and Valjean _whines_ , lets out a babble of _Please_ and _Javert_ and _God, oh God, alpha_ , and Javert's will is weak. He presses in a finger as he licks up tentatively, to the musk of Valjean's heavy balls and wraps his free hand curiously around Valjean's cock, thick and long for an omega but without the flared mass near the base that is the particular mark of an alpha, that marks them out as the dogs and beasts of humanity. He presses a lick over the root and a kiss and Valjean cries out: he spills a thimbleful of white fluid over his belly, but he won't be able to reach release yet, not now on the cusp of his Time with an alpha bent between his thighs. Valjean will find his pleasure only when Javert is buried within him.

"Javert," Valjean commands, impatient, and Javert shivers as his aspect fights to obey, to soothe the omega under his hands, to abase himself at Valjean's feet; he bites down hard over Valjean's hip instead, smirks as he feels Valjean jerk and yelp, and he presses in a second finger, probing curiously. Valjean's body opens beautifully for him, slick and easy: he is ready but Javert isn't, he must- "Come up here," Valjean adds, in a whisper, and there's enough of a plea in his voice for Javert to scramble up to his knees against the couch. Valjean hauls him up the rest of the way with his insane strength, and Javert is trembling with lust as they kiss, his hands propped against the arm rests.

Valjean's fingers pull off his belt, then drag down his trousers, freeing his aching arousal and tugging lightly, guiding him forward, and they both groan as Javert pushes inside, the slide gritty despite prep and Valjean's nature, but Valjean gets his long legs around Javert's waist and _pulls_ and he thrusts, all the way in to the hilt, it's wet and scorchingly hot and glorious the way Valjean's face goes slack with pleasure and his body clamps tight over Javert's cock as though he doesn't want to let him go. 

"More," Valjean instructs, and even as Javert shudders, he bites down hard against Valjean's bared neck and pins him, making the most of what awkward angle they have to pull back a fraction and drive back up with a jerk of his hips; his inner beast isn't quite interested in his omega's pleasure, not in the first round, not until Valjean is blooded and seeded and locked to him, but Valjean groans and bucks against him and gets a hand between them to stroke himself. His uniform is sticking to him, sweaty and probably ruined: Valjean whimpers as his cock presses briefly against the rough blue fabric, then his hands drop to Javert's hips and he drags him up, forcefully, nearly dislodging the grip Javert has against his neck, wrenching Javert's rhythm out of his control and under Valjean's unholy strength. It is too much to bear: Javert muffles a sob as he comes, shoved deep, his knot swelling in the heat of Valjean's body to bind them together.

Valjean squirms breathlessly against him, and Javert fumbles a hand between them to pull at his cock, haphazard and clumsy, but Valjean still gasps and whispers his name and jerks and Javert's hand grows sticky and wet. He lets up from the bite with a sigh, sucking coppery blood off his teeth, and Valjean grins at him, reckless with mischief, drawing Javert's hand up to lick it clean. Javert groans, as his prick twitches where it is trapped inside Valjean, and Valjean purrs, shifting against him as though he feels it and God, they're both damned, this-

"Perhaps the bed would have been a better option," Valjean muses, his voice hoarse. They'll be tied for at least half an hour and Javert's knees are already threatening to kill him. Somehow, they manage to fumble their way into a slightly less punishing position, curled on the large armchair, but God knows what will happen if Valjean's poor housekeeper happens in on them, and if Valjean doesn't stop squirming and clenching over him Javert will go mad.

"Stop that," he hisses, when Valjean does it again. "Christ!"

Valjean laughs, because he is the devil, but at least he stops, and busies himself with unbuttoning Javert's stained uniform. Javert eyes it glumly - he has but one set spare, and it is in his closet. He has paperwork to do and Valjean is the devil. 

He grabs at Valjean's wrists when Valjean starts to try to push his jacket off him, and pulls up his sleeves to inspect the old scars. They're an ugly shade of faded pink despite the years, ridged with scar tissue, and Valjean goes still and quiet. "The Court should have asked to see your wrists," Javert mutters, and Valjean's smile is wry, annoyingly rueful yet again.

"Will you not ever forgive me?"

It is, in Javert's opinion, an entirely unreasonable question to ask when they are caught together like this, and even as he starts to reply, a suspicion curls within his belly. "Is that why you invited me into your home?"

Valjean blinks, and for the first time, he actually starts to look angry - Javert winces as Valjean shifts against him, his back stiffening. "Javert - of course _not_ , Javert, is that what you thought, why would I-"

"You are a free man, Valjean," Javert snaps, because the beast within him is unchained and Valjean is too close and Javert cannot think and they are still joined, God, "Free to live your life as a rich mayor of a town. You do not have to be friendly to me. You did not have to have a word with the Commissaire - you've - you have _won_ ," Javert notes bitterly, "You have taken my honour and my pride, what more-"

"Javert," Valjean whispers, and somehow he manages to twist down enough to kiss, fumbling as it is against Javert's clenched teeth, "Javert, this is not how I - true, I could have taken the easy path, allowed the Commissaire to dismiss you, or avoided you in Montreuil-sur-Mer, but you do a lot of good for the town, you are a good and honourable man-" Valjean takes in a soft and shaky breath, "Was I wrong to desire you?" 

"You," Javert begins, but Valjean has that pleading look in his eyes and he allows the next kiss, parts his lips, and allows himself to be soothed. Valjean may have won, Javert realizes, but it is not a complete victory - far more completely than justice itself and the grace of God, Javert now owns a part of Valjean as well, and he has for a while. Fate has bound them both together as penance, and it is, in Javert's opinion, both mercy and cruelty that the only redemption that he can see is shackled too to each other's wrists. He draws Valjean's scarred skin up to his mouth, tracing his lips over the scar tissue under the heft of Valjean's palm, and Valjean lets out a sound like the gasping tail of a sob. Desire is the least of what Javert feels when he looks upon the entirety of Jean Valjean's soul bared - the rest and the truth of it is far more cathartic.

V.

Their... encounter... is rather less of a social scandal than he had thought, as much as Valjean now annoyingly touches his fingers to the scar that Javert has left on his neck when agitated instead of the marks on his wrists, like an omega unconsciously seeking reassurance from an alpha's mark. It's entirely irritating, and Javert tells Valjean so at the tail end of a morning report, a month after the fact.

Valjean grins at him from behind his desk. His hair is slightly dishevelled for some reason, he hasn't bothered to smooth it down and it is annoyingly distracting. "It is a better memory than most," Valjean replies, and Javert scowls. "Tonight after your rounds, are you free-"

"No," Javert states curtly. He wants to put the whole of the... of _everything_ behind him if he can. Consign it to the annals of sudden madness. Valjean, however, has the patience of the devil, and Javert resigns himself to another long night to be spent trying to steer Valjean away from the disreputable docks. He can't quite explain his increased and exasperating sense of protectiveness over Valjean. Residual heat madness, perhaps. Valjean's scent seems a touch more pronounced, and there's something different about it that Javert can't quite place, and it's _also_ entirely irritating.

Tonight, perhaps in an attempt to sour Javert's attitude towards life in general a little more, Montreuil-sur-Mer actually has a murder, which is novel enough that his officers mill about the docks, probably trampling on all the evidence in the process. He dispatches one to find the town's doctor, although he's fairly sure that there's nothing more left to be done for the prostitute breathing her last on the filthy cobblestones, and judging from how the other fallen women are jeering and pointing at a scratched up fat merchant, it's fairly obvious who the perpetrator is. Javert takes his statement, dispatches another pair of officers to take the murderer to the cells, takes the statement of the witnesses, and tries his best not to look towards the corner of the crowd, where a tall shadow is standing under an awning. Valjean has picked a poor night for his infernal alms giving. 

The doctor arrives, pronounces the girl dead, and gives Javert his statement, looking half-asleep and uncomfortable. After that, it's a matter of arranging for the girl's body to be deposited in a public grave, and with its entertainment dispersed, the crowd melts away. Javert walks the doctor to the main street, and as an afterthought, glares pointedly at Valjean until Valjean peels away from the shadow and pads meekly up to them. 

They walk out of the docks area in silence, and Javert is thinking fondly of a warm cup of tea in his flat when the doctor - an omega, common for doctors - sniffs at the air, and glances over at Valjean. "Ah, Monsieur le maire, congratulations."

Valjean stares at the doctor, puzzled, and the doctor, yawning, continues, "It is difficult for male omegas to be so blessed, but not impossible, although at your age, Monsieur, it may continue to be difficult." 

"What?" Javert blinks, puzzled, even as Valjean slowly pales.

"Why, the child, of course," the doctor yawns again, oblivious, and pats Valjean's hand as they come up to the doctor's house. "Perhaps in a month you should come to see me, Monsieur, for a check up. _Bonne nuit._ "

They stand frozen on the street until the doctor wanders into his house and closes the door, and Javert opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, utterly floored.

Valjean looks at him and, perhaps naturally, starts to laugh, and it gets worse when Javert glares at him. "Of all - Oh, of all-"

Javert grabs at his elbow and marches him down the street, towards the mayor's residence. "You were not on the herbs?"

"Ah, well," Valjean manages, before he starts to laugh again, and Javert recalls with profound irritation that Valjean hadn't even _known_ that he was in heat. Toulon and poverty and age had conspired somehow to create an insane and improbable set of circumstances and Javert wants to scream. God is cruel. "Of all the ways to find out," Valjean adds finally, when they're finally at Valjean's house, and then as he turns to go, Valjean clutches at his wrist. "Come in for tea. Please."

He doesn't know what he's meant to say or do, so Javert obeys, this time allowing Valjean to take his coat, though he sets his hat and rapier aside by himself. The housekeeper is long gone, and Javert frowns as Valjean makes as though to head to the kitchen before hesitating and circling over to a cupboard instead. He takes a pair of glasses and wine bottle from within it, waving Javert to a chair. Wine has never been good for Javert's nerves, but he accepts the glass anyway, still reeling. A _child_.

"This is your fault," he tells Valjean finally, and to his annoyance, Valjean actually starts to laugh again - there's something joyous in his voice, even when Javert scowls. "You are _glad_ of it?"

"Of course," Valjean looks surprised that he has even asked. "At my age, and - I never thought - I never thought that I would ever have the means to provide for a family, before, and now, I never did think that I would ever, Javert," Valjean adds, when Javert stares at him, then he sighs. "You are always welcome into my home. But should you prefer to be kept out of this entirely then it is your choice." 

"It is a mistake."

Valjean sets his jaw, and Javert manages not to shiver. It's a close thing. "Perhaps. But it is mine to keep." 

The wine makes Javert a little lightheaded, and he sets the empty glass back at the coffee table. "My mother was abandoned," he says finally. "She was a beta."

"Javert-"

"I have never thought of having a family," Javert adds, and although Valjean tries to hide it, he's disappointed - the look of it twists deep despite Javert's best efforts, God, he is bound to Valjean after all, and again this is mercy and cruelty both. 

Valjean looks surprised when Javert rounds over the coffee table to kiss him, but they somehow make it to Valjean's plain bedroom, shedding their clothes unceremoniously along the way. Preparation takes longer out of Valjean's Time, but in the end Valjean still whimpers and pushes back against him when Javert mounts him, pressed against his back, Valjean on his hands and knees like a supplicant. It gets frenzied after that and rough and eventually Valjean screams Javert's name into his pillows when he comes just on Javert's knot and this, God, there is nothing of sanity in this. Javert pants against the back of Valjean's neck when they lie curled and tied on the bed and he has - he has missed this; he has never known anything of intimacy until Valjean and when Valjean strokes a palm down his hip, he chokes down a strangled sound.

The big hand jerks away, but Javert catches Valjean's wrist, stroking a thumb over the scars without looking, and eventually Valjean's breathing evens, slowly: he even starts to laugh again for a moment until Javert growls and nips at the back of his neck. "Stop that."

"You can move in with me," Valjean suggests sleepily, because he's presumptuous like that, and when Javert doesn't answer, frozen, Valjean reaches behind them both to Javert's rump, and drags Javert up against him, shoving him a fraction of an inch deeper, fuck, he's too old to get hard again anytime soon but his body tries its damnedest.

He goes home the moment his knot goes down, despite Valjean's yawning protests, and is stiffly polite to Valjean for about two days, annoyed on the third, and spends Sunday after church in Valjean's bed, with Valjean straddling his waist and leisurely rolling his hips in Javert's lap, taking him deeper with each clench and this is unholy. He shouldn't want this and they should stop, but he seems to have less and less self-control where Valjean is concerned, and his new scent is even _more_ distracting, now that Javert knows what it means. 

As they lie curled, Valjean wraps his arms around Javert and murmurs, drowsily, "I hope that the child has your eyes."

It's a perfectly insane thing to say, characteristic of Jean Valjean, and Javert tries to glare at him but Valjean has dozed off. With a sigh, Javert rubs at the powerful arch of Valjean's thigh, wrapped over his waist, and slips his fingers down, to touch his fingertips to the ridges of a shackle's scar. He's bound to this future as surely as Valjean is bound to his past - only that Valjean's marks are visible on his skin. He has a responsibility, and he has not fallen - he has followed the great chain of duty for so long that Fate has crept upon him in the dark and loosened his grip on the entirety of his world. This is not penance after all, or redemption, but something more, something he cannot see, and it frightens him. 

Still. Inspector Javert does not run from the dark. Policemen are trained to run _towards_ their fears. He stays abed instead of retreating, sleeps, and wakes up later in the evening to Valjean moaning huskily into his ear, and the world has come to this, Javert thinks, as he squirms, already hard, still buried, perhaps it will be this simple. In life, love - in love, life. They are not there yet, but - Valjean lets out a soft sigh as Javert rubs a palm over his belly - eventually, somehow. 

And then Valjean blithely ruins his expectations by groaning _mon bien-aimé_ into his ear when he comes, and he laughs when Javert glowers at him, red-faced, shattered. 

"Next week," he tells Valjean as he picks up his clothes, later. He's uncommonly nervous, but at least his voice is steady. "If you have a room to spare."

Valjean doesn't try to suggest that he move into the master bedroom, thankfully, or Javert probably would have thought better of his words. He smiles, instead, adoringly, and Javert ducks his eyes. "Come here, Javert," Valjean murmurs, and this is a command, not a request, but Javert deposits his clothes on a chair and steps over to the bed. Valjean gestures at him, his smile warm and soft, but Javert bends, with a stuttering breath, to press a kiss to the scar around Valjean's ankle, then up, to the scars on his wrists, like worship, and Valjean sucks in a tight breath, grasps his cheeks in his palms, and brings him up for a close-mouthed kiss, chaste. 

"Do you forgive me now?" Valjean asks, and it takes a moment for Javert to remember the context. 

He can't answer - the words stay lodged in his throat, and he presses another kiss over Valjean's mouth instead, his eyes, then lower, to the fading bite scar on his throat. He must. He will. He doesn't know. There is nothing to forgive, and everything. Valjean hums, then he groans, as Javert nuzzles up to his ear, and Javert's own _mon bien-aimé_ is almost inaudible and hushed. This is not yet the sum total of them both, but the truth of it will be there in the days to come; he will hold his course, and he will find a place for them both before the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to discuss ficbunnies or the story etc, I'm on twitter at @manic_intent and tumblr at manic-intent.tumblr.com - Thanks for reading!


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